


I try to picture me without you (but I can't)

by canistakahari



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Blood, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Past Character Death, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Serious Injuries, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 15:21:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2656874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke is seriously injured in a skirmish with some bandits and needs a healer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I try to picture me without you (but I can't)

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set post-Dragon Age II and pre-Dragon Age Inquisition, but there are **no spoilers** for DA:I. If you need to know who the "past character death" is, click to the notes at the end of the fic for spoilers. The death is only referenced. I've moved around some in-game quests and events for story purposes, so acts don't necessarily line up. 
> 
> I literally could not have finished this fic without the constant love and encouragement from [mackem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackem/pseuds/Mackem), [radiophile](http://archiveofourown.org/users/radiophile/pseuds/radiophile), [psikeval](http://archiveofourown.org/users/psikeval/pseuds/psikeval), and [affectingly](http://archiveofourown.org/users/affectingly/pseuds/affectingly). Thank you guys for reading it as I was writing it and then betaing it for me afterwards. <3 I love you guys. 
> 
> There is a scene in the story that was directly inspired by my favourite piece of Dragon Age fanart by ewylouie: [Bethany & Hawke](http://ewylouie.tumblr.com/post/89523734915/lil-hawkes-hangin-out). 
> 
> The title is from Fall Out Boy's "Immortals."

oOo

It happens quietly, in the midst of the fight, but Fenris hears the soft sounds over the clang of blades and shouted curses; a shocked exhalation and Hawke dumbly whispering, “Oops” as a knife slides between his ribs.

 

The look of near-comical surprise on Hawke’s face would be amusing if Fenris was seeing it in any other situation. Hawke slips on the rocks, stumbling, but despite the blade buried in his body he still manages to drop one of his daggers to wrap a gauntleted hand around his attacker’s wrist, reeling him in. With his other hand, he twists his remaining blade and drives it through the bandit’s upper arm, pinning him in place.

 

“Fenris,” gasps Hawke, grinning a blood-red smile at his struggling attacker. “If you could do the honours?”

 

“Hawke!” yells Fenris. There’s a man in his way, so he kicks him hard between the legs and runs him through, fighting his way through the last of the bandits to get to where Hawke is struggling with the enemy rogue; the man can’t get free, Hawke holding him hostage in mutual impalement.

 

Once Fenris is clear, the last of the group dead, he leaps forward and cleanly beheads Hawke’s attacker.

 

“Ah,” grunts Hawke, turning his face away from arterial spray and slipping to the ground beneath the corpse. “Ugh, _shit_. Get him off me, Fenris.”

 

Fenris sheaths his sword to pull the man’s dead weight off Hawke’s crumpled body, while Hawke grasps the freed hilt of the dagger protruding from his torso. His lips thin, face white beneath the blood, and he slowly pulls the knife free.

 

“Poison?” demands Fenris, shoving the body away from him and spitting on it.

 

“No,” says Hawke. He sucks in a sharp, strained breath, and blood bubbles to his lips, streaking down into the black of his beard. “Ow. That smarts.”

 

“Idiot,” breathes Fenris. He rips a strip from his cloak and folds it up, pressing it hard against the rapidly-growing stain of blood. Crouched on the balls of his feet, he raises his head, looking instinctively for the mage—

 

For Anders, who has been dead and gone for almost two years now.

 

“Potion?” rasps Hawke, yelping and jerking against Fenris’s hands, scrabbling to push him away.

 

“Stop,” commands Fenris, catching Hawke’s wrist and deliberately folding his hand over the fabric of Fenris’s cloak to increase the pressure against the wound. “You must stop, Hawke. Hold this here. Keep pressure on it.”

 

He’s panicking, they’re both panicking, quiet and insidious, the tremble of Fenris’s limbs and the wild gleam in Hawke’s eyes as he squirms and kicks out helplessly. His blood is everywhere, slipping wetly against their skin and armour. Fenris thinks he might have half a bottle of potion in his pack, not enough to do the job, but _anything_ will help—

 

Hawke, predictably, starts to laugh, head thrown back, naked throat bared. “Fenris, you must transcribe my obituary, for posterity. Have you got a pencil? ‘Here lies Garrett Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall: not dead by demon or dragon or abomination, but ultimately felled by an inferior little thug with inferior skills and inferior hygiene—‘”

 

“No. Shut up,” snaps Fenris, his throat tight. The panic is there, choking him, closing up his lungs. “I will not allow it. Hold this here.”

 

“You’ll have to tell Bethany,” says Hawke, his voice softer now, but he finally listens to Fenris, holding the bloodied cloth to his seeping wound. His mouth is slick with blood and his lips are turning blue; the blade punctured his lung.

 

“There will be nothing to tell, Hawke,” says Fenris, searching their packs. “Now be quiet and still.”

 

For a moment, Hawke obeys. And, as ever, his ability to follow orders doesn’t last long. “I’ve always loved the way you say my name.”

 

“Was that at _all_ a necessary contribution?” demands Fenris, exasperated. “Be silent, Hawke!”

 

“ _‘Be silent, Hawke_ ,’” he mimics, his brow furrowing into the scowl he always adopts when he’s mocking Fenris. He looks like a fool, ragdoll limbs and sharp, sharp eyes, sprawled in the dirt, helpless to resist the urge to make light of every situation, even his own imminent death. His mouth curves into a smirk, delighted with his impression.

 

“Please,” begs Fenris, his eyes burning. “Please, lie still and stop talking or I will strangle you myself.”

 

“You will not,” Hawke mumbles petulantly, his forehead wrinkling. “Say it for me again. Nicely this time.”

 

“Say _what_?”

 

“My name, obviously.” Hawke almost sounds offended Fenris had to ask.

 

Fenris sighs, angrily shoving aside a dried bundle of elfroot. Why does Hawke insist on carrying so much _junk_? “As if you do not hear it enough. Very well. You are ridiculous, Hawke.”

 

“Ahh.” Hawke shuts his eyes, crooked smile frozen, as Fenris closes his fingers around a potion.

 

oOo

 

Fenris knows Hawke for nearly a year before he learns his given name.

 

He is addressed only as ‘Hawke’ by everyone in their acquaintance; not even Varric, or Aveline, those that have known him longest, address him as anything else. Bethany calls him brother or big brother, while to his mother Hawke is an endless, dizzying string of affectionate diminutives: darling, sweetheart, my baby. Hawke is singular, unique. The name introduces him, precedes him, everywhere he goes, spreading around Kirkwall like a whisper or a curse. 

 

Fenris is aware, then, that Hawke must have a first name, but it is a largely insignificant detail. Unimportant, in the grand scheme of things. He could ask, and Hawke would surely give it, but instead Fenris keeps his curiosity private.

 

It is midwinter, when the mystery finally solves itself.

 

Fenris makes his way to Lowtown wrapped in a threadbare cloak, the ground cold and hard beneath his feet, his breath misting before him. The sky is the same dismal, uniform grey it’s been for almost a month, and while it’s not snowing now, it will be soon enough. As he turns the corner to Gamlen’s hovel, he hears laughter echoing off the stone, and he stops in the archway.

 

“You’re mad if you think this will work,” Bethany is saying, sitting on the steps up to Gamlen’s house.

 

“It will!” insists Hawke, who is sitting a few steps below her. “We did this all the time when you were only small. Indulge your big brother his nostalgic whims?”

 

Bethany huffs. Both Hawkes are dressed in sturdy winter gear, thick tunics and scarves and boots. Bethany is wearing a blue knitted hat, while Hawke goes bareheaded, his cheeks flushed in the chill wind. “You are ridiculous.” She scoots forward, however, tucking her knees over Hawke’s broad shoulders.

 

Hawke leans back on his elbows, reaching up to grip Bethany’s ankles. “You’re taller, now, so you’ll have to lean forward or we’ll overbalance.”

 

“How do you expect to stand up?” demands Bethany, clutching at Hawke’s head. “Surely it’s too—”

 

Whatever she’s going to say is cut off by a shriek as Hawke abruptly shifts his weight forward, getting awkwardly to his feet with Bethany sitting on his shoulders.

 

They waver dangerously, Bethany clawing at Hawke’s hair for purchase; he’s a tall man without his sibling on his shoulders and stacked together they very nearly do topple down to the ground, but Hawke grips at his sister’s thighs, grounding her, and she leans forward, hugging the top of his head.

 

“I’m going to kill you!” she screams, laughing brightly as he rotates them in a slow circle, “Garrett, I’m going to tell mother you nearly dashed my brains out on the cobbles and she’s going to be _so_ disappointed in you!”

 

“As if that’s any more a threat than it was when you were eight years old!” retorts Hawke. “I have already perfected the art of disappointing mother, anyway.” But the rest of their bickering is lost as Fenris struggles with the name bouncing around inside his head.

 

 _Garrett_. Garrett Hawke.

 

It’s not what he was expecting. It’s round and friendly; an unassuming, common name. Very Fereldan.

 

“Garrett! Put me down this _instant_!” Bethany is still laughing, pulling Hawke’s messy hair.

 

“Your knees,” says Hawke, taking a handful of wobbly steps into the square, “are much bonier than I remember.” He turns towards the archway and finally catches sight of Fenris. “Ah, Fenris!”

 

Fenris nods at him, then glances up to nod at Bethany. “Hawke. Bethany.” 

 

“Would you like a ride as well?” asks Hawke.  “You can sit on Bethany’s shoulders.”

 

Towering above him, Bethany rolls her eyes. “Fenris is sensible. He’ll want no part in this.”

 

Hawke waggles his eyebrows at him. “No?”

 

“No,” says Fenris firmly.

 

“We’re just waiting on Varric,” says Hawke. “And then we’ll head out.”

 

“Please put me down first,” says Bethany, knocking her knuckles against Hawke’s forehead. “It’s cold up here. You’re not carrying me all the way up Sundermount like this, Garrett.”

 

Over the next ten years, Fenris never once calls Hawke by his first name.

 

oOo

 

“Drink,” orders Fenris, holding Hawke’s head up and pressing the potion against his lips.

 

Hawke inexplicably turns his face away and as far as Fenris can tell, it’s just an instinctive contrary reaction to being told to do something. Bull-headed stubbornness grafted beneath skin and muscle and bone. Fenris has never met a human so needlessly maddening.

 

“Hawke.”

 

“Mm.”

 

“ _Hawke_.”

 

“What.”

 

“Drink. The. _Potion_.”

 

Hawke sighs, a wet, guttural sound, but his lips part, mouth stained red with blood, and Fenris hurriedly grips his hair, tilts his head back, and tips the contents of the bottle down his throat.

 

Predictably, Hawke chokes, dissolving into hacking coughs. Precious drops of potion escape the corners of his mouth, dribbling into his beard, but Hawke seems to remember how to swallow quickly enough to get the rest inside his body.

 

“Idiot,” hisses Fenris, for what feels like the thousandth time. He’s exhausted. Hawke is tall and heavy and Fenris half-carried him away from the site of the ambush to an isolated cave with both their packs on his back and shoulders.

 

“From you, that is practically a term of endearment,” says Hawke, clearing his throat. He sounds like he can’t quite catch his breath.

 

“By all means, do not allow reality or reason to colour your interpretation of events,” snaps Fenris.

 

“Why would I ever do that,” says Hawke. “Reality is so often rubbish in comparison.”

 

“I am going to check your wound,” announces Fenris. “Be still.”

 

Hawke is incapable of being still. He squirms, bats at Fenris’s hands as he peels back the makeshift bandage, grips Fenris’s wrist with blood-slick hands, his eyes wild as he fixes his gaze on Fenris’s face. The wound is bleeding sluggishly; Fenris is relieved to see there was enough potion to clot Hawke’s blood. He has an injury kit in their pack, so Fenris can bandage it properly. Then...

 

Then they will need a healer.

 

Fenris grits his teeth, working to peel Hawke’s armour and clothing away from the wound, cleaning it up and applying a bandage. He binds it tightly and then redresses Hawke, who has gone obligingly limp in his arms, either because he’s given up or he’s finally too insensible to care.

 

He should not assume, however, that this means Hawke will stop talking.

 

“But wouldn’t it be funny,” he rasps. “If, after everything, this is how I go. This wouldn’t be a very good chapter in Varric’s book. His editor will be furious! Sales will _plummet_.”

 

“’Funny’ is...not the word I would use to describe it,” says Fenris, voice tense.

 

“What do you know about humour, Fenris?” groans Hawke. “As far as you’re concerned, humour is a thing that happens to other people.” His breaths are ragged, messy things. Fenris can hear the hole in his lungs.

 

“You are simply too amusing to possibly compete with,” says Fenris flatly. “There is no need for me to try my hand at a skill you have thoroughly mastered.”

 

“You are positively full of shit.” Hawke makes a noise that begins as a laugh and ends as a cough and then covers his mouth with his fist, staining his gauntlet with fine droplets of blood. His gaze is an anxious, skittish thing, bruised eyes darting around Fenris’s face, so intent on watching him that it’s almost unnerving. Hawke’s attention is always welcome, but the desperation in his glassy brown eyes speaks to why Hawke is looking so closely.

 

With a steadiness he does not feel, Fenris wipes fresh blood away from the corner of Hawke’s mouth. “Yes, laugh,” he snarls, having reached his limit. “Mocking grave concerns is what you’re good at. Maker forbid the Champion of Kirkwall take anything _seriously_.”

 

“You’re not allowed to be upset with me,” says Hawke petulantly, his mouth twisting into a broken little smile. “Not when I’m dying.”

 

“Do not do this,” says Fenris. “Please shut up.” He shuts his eyes, willing the tide of his grief and anger to recede. The longer he remains here, holding Hawke’s head in his lap, the more time he wastes. Hawke cannot travel and so Fenris must find a healer and bring them to Hawke.

 

They passed through a village, perhaps an hour ago. A settlement of such small size must have need of a healer or perhaps even an apostate. It had certainly seemed isolated enough for there to be a need and Fenris has coin enough to pay them. Hawke will be safe enough in this cave. If Fenris hurries—

 

“I’m sorry,” says Hawke, interrupting the disconcerting spiral of Fenris’s thoughts.

 

“No. Do not _do this_.”

 

Hawke’s friendly face is twisted by pain, fine lines of tension around his eyes and mouth. He doesn’t listen to Fenris. “I’m sorry, love. I’m sorry. I can’t keep that promise. I hate to leave you alone.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Hawke,” says Fenris. “Anyone who can talk this much is far from death. If you have the strength of will to _shut up_ and let me think, I will not actually need to write your obituary.”

 

“It’s so disappointing,” whispers Hawke, his gaze going very distant.

 

“What?” asks Fenris, frowning.

 

“If you’re going to tell people about me and my life I want to hear it. I’ll be so upset to miss my own funeral.”

 

It’s such a _Hawke_ thing to say that Fenris actually laughs, cutting himself off sharply when he realises what he’s doing.

 

Hawke closes his eyes, smiling smugly. “You know what I regret?”

 

Fenris slides his fingers against Hawke’s throat, feeling for his erratic pulse. He sighs. “What do you regret, Hawke?” Hawke’s answering silence sends worry lancing down Fenris’s spine. “ _Hawke_.”

 

“Do you think when this is over, we could visit Lothering?” asks Hawke, apropos of nothing.

 

“...Is that your regret?” says Fenris, raising an eyebrow.

 

“What? No,” mutters Hawke. “I regret a lot, Fenris. I’ve made so many mistakes. It’s probably easier to list what I don’t regret.”

 

“Which is what?”

 

“You don’t know? Every second I’ve spent with you.”

 

oOo

 

“At least do something about the corpses,” says Hawke, standing in the foyer with his chin in his hand, peering distrustfully down at a questionable stain. “Please? For me?”

 

“What corpses?” asks Fenris. “I see no corpses.”

 

Hawke blinks at him. “You’re joking.”

 

“And you still can’t tell,” says Fenris.

 

“Har har,” mutters Hawke. “Look at this. The entire place is rotting. It’s going to come down in the night and bury you in rubble.” He kicks at the peeling wood of the doorway and watches it splinter. “Meanwhile, my house is intact. There are also absolutely no corpses littering the corridors.”

 

“I think they add a certain...something,” says Fenris.

 

“Oh, yes,” agrees Hawke. “If your intention is to confuse visitors by making them wonder if they’ve stumbled into The Bone Pit by accident, then yes, you’ve done a very nice job with your decorating.”

 

“Are you asking me to move in with you?” Fenris doesn’t look at Hawke when he poses his question, fixing his gaze on the bit of doorway that Hawke is steadily destroying with the toe of his boot.

 

“I’m not _not_ asking you to move in.”

 

When Fenris chances a glance at Hawke’s face, he’s staring at Fenris. Their eyes meet briefly and Hawke’s cheeks inexplicably turn red and he adds, “Well, I’m not.”

 

“I’ve lost track of what you _are_ doing,” points out Fenris, exasperated. Hawke likes to talk in circles, creating endless trains of conversation that tend to leave Fenris feeling dizzily like he needs to sit down for a while. Fenris spent three years on the run and now makes a living trailing after Thedas’s most reluctant hero, and despite the constant tangles with slavers, thugs, and disgruntled blood mages, conversations with Hawke are still the most exhausting thing he deals with on a daily basis.

 

“So did I,” admits Hawke, running a hand through his hair restlessly. “Come stay at mine, tonight. And tomorrow. Or indefinitely.”

 

“But I’ve only just managed to get this place exactly how I like it,” protests Fenris dryly.

 

“Okay, this time you’re definitely joking,” mutters Hawke, eyebrows knitting together in what can only be described as a pout. “I know for a fact you haven’t even put up any _curtains_ and every morning you rise, like a rooster, with the sun.”

 

Hawke is standing in the doorway with his arms wrapped around himself like he’s cold, face screwed up in distaste. He’s like a child, sometimes. The oldest sibling, accustomed to getting his way whether through sheer stubborn resolve or simple ill-tempered wheedling. He won’t leave until Fenris tells him yes or no.

 

Fenris breathes out slowly through his nose. He hates this mansion. But Fenris has always cultivated his hate like a gardener tends to a plot of flowers, lovingly and patiently, breeding it with malice and aggression until it blossoms into vengeance. He’s been here three years, waiting, squatting in a house that never even actually belonged to Danarius.

 

“I’d hate to leave all the wine,” says Fenris.

 

It’s worth it, for the look on Hawke’s face.

 

(He doesn’t ever move in with Hawke.

 

He wishes he had.)

 

oOo

 

Fenris runs.

 

He leaves Hawke in the cave, wrapped shivering in his cloak, and pushes away his reaching hands, ignores the slurred, “Don’t, please don’t go,” that tumbles from his lips.

 

“I will return,” Fenris promises fervently, and then he runs.

 

There is a very real possibility that Hawke will die, alone, before Fenris can keep his word.

 

 _You didn’t even tell him you loved him, you twat._ The thought comes to him, inexplicably, in Isabela’s voice. _Have you ever told him, properly, that you love him? Have you done a single thing right since you met him? Suppose it doesn’t matter, if he’s going to die. He won’t know any better, soon._

 

He stumbles into a field, hopping the fence, and gingerly gives wide berth to a large, horned cow snorting into the grass.

 

The earth is soft and fragrant, damp from a recent rainfall. He slows, just a little, to avoid slipping in the mud. He’ll do Hawke no favours if he breaks a bone.

 

Houses rise out of the twilight, wreathed in mist and lengthening shadows. Fenris tugs up his hood, tucking back his hair, and looks for lit lamps in the doorways and windows. There’s a sign, propped up in the front window of one of the houses, and he cannot read the characters but the potion drawn on the wooden board is clear enough. He climbs the steps and raps on the door with his knuckles.

 

The woman that answers is all hard, gaunt angles and severe lines. Amber eyes peer at him through the gap, mistrustful. “What do you want, elf? I do not know your face.”

 

“I saw the sign,” says Fenris. “Are you a healer? I have gold.”

 

“What’s the hurry?” She looks him up and down, widens the door just a little. “You look fine to me.”

 

Fenris grits his teeth. “My friend and I were attacked by bandits, an hour up the road. I had to leave him. He needs healing.”

 

“I have potions for sale,” she says deliberately. There is something familiar about her eyes, like gold in the firelight, and the white spill of her hair.

 

“I don’t need potions,” says Fenris evenly. “I need a _healer_.”

 

For a very brief moment, Fenris misses the dependability of Anders. At least, despite everything, his presence had ensured Hawke’s continued health.

 

“Lets see your gold, then.” The witch cracks a ragged smile at him. “I don’t make house calls for cheap.”

 

Fenris pulls a sovereign from his belt and gives it to her. “I can pay you more after the job is done. Please. I need aid.”

 

The witch takes the gold coin, turning it over in her hands. She tucks it into her purse, then, after a moment’s thought, removes her purse from her belt entirely and drops it into a chest near the door. Fenris can feel the swirl of magic in the air as she locks it.

 

“We will travel faster if I carry you,” says Fenris, stepping away from the door and shifting anxiously from foot to foot. “Will you allow it?”

 

“Wait,” says the witch. She looks Fenris up and down. “Gold is nice to have, but serves me no purpose if I don’t come back alive to spend it. Give me something of yours. You can fetch it when this is done and dusted.”

 

Fenris hesitates. “Fair. What do you require?”

 

“Whatever you’ve got that’s dearest to you in this world,” she says. “Won’t matter, otherwise.”

 

What does he have, besides Hawke? Fenris is at a loss.

 

Sensing his confusion, the witch gestures at the sword on his back. Her eyes are pale in the darkening light. “That looks expensive. Feels important, too. Give me that.”

 

“That is unwise,” says Fenris, though he reaches to unstrap the sword from his back. “We will be defenseless if I leave my weapon here.”

 

Gripping the sword by its hilt in his left hand, he angles it between them. It’s a Blade of Mercy, a gift from Hawke. Of course.

 

_“You think I want this?” Fenris snarls, shoving it back into Hawke’s hands.  “You can’t be serious.”_

 

_Hawke inclines his head, propping the sword against Fenris’s bed. “Melt it down, if you like,” he says. “Throw it in the trash. Bury it in a slaver’s heart. It’s yours to use or destroy. Your choice.”_

 

Fenris had ignored it for weeks, letting it gather dust.

 

He uses it now and Hawke doesn’t comment on its presence.

 

“Oh, I doubt you’re ever _defenseless_ ,” says the witch, darting out one long finger to touch the curl of lyrium at the top of Fenris’s throat. “You have _these,_ after all.”

 

She’s touching him for barely an instant before he knocks her hand away but it’s enough for her magic to react to the lyrium, his markings flaring to life. He deliberately steps away, glowering at her wide grin. He presents the sword to the witch, offering her the hilt. “Fine. We have delayed too long already. Take the sword.”

 

“What a fine weapon,” she murmurs, hefting it experimentally. “It is obvious it means something to you. It will do.” She disappears into the house to put away the sword and when she returns, she is shouldering a mage’s staff. Stepping out onto the landing, the witch pulls the door shut behind her and locks it.

 

“Quickly,” urges Fenris. He turns his back to her, crouching on the balls of his feet and looking expectantly at her over his shoulder.

 

“If that’s how you want it, serah, fine. Whatever pleases you.” She rolls her eyes and clambers onto his back, Fenris tucking his hands under her knees. She laughs sharply in his ear, lacing her fingers together around his neck. “Onward, then, noble steed.”

 

Fenris grits his teeth, steadies her weight, and breaks into a run, picking out the path in the darkness.

 

oOo

 

 

The sun is high, and hot, and Hawke’s in the mood to barter.

 

Leaning against the Lowtown market stall, Fenris shades his eyes against the glare, squinting at Hawke as he hunches eagerly over the Trinketsmonger’s wares.

 

“Oh, look at this,” Hawke murmurs, picking up a ring and holding it up to the sunlight. “You know, I think I recognise this sigil. This is dwarven, isn’t it?”

 

Both Fenris and the merchant shrug, but Hawke isn’t really paying attention anyway. He turns the ring this way and that, his face scrunching up as he peers at the blocky design.

 

“Definitely dwarven. How much for this, then?”

 

“That’s gold, it is. Gold for gold. Ten sovereigns, serah.” The merchant crosses her arms, looking firm.

 

Hawke clucks his tongue. “Bit rich for a dented old ring. I’ll give you six.”

 

“Won’t go lower than nine. You tryin’ to put me out of business?”

 

“Eight.”

 

“Sold.”

 

Hawke grins triumphantly, digging out the gold from his belt and handing it over to the merchant. “A pleasure, as always. Fenris, lets pop into the Hanged Man while we’re here.”

 

It’s not even noon. Fenris grimaces. “For a drink? Now?”

 

“Maker, no,” groans Hawke. “I have no desire to develop a sour stomach this early in the day. No, I am almost positive this ring belongs to Varric. I’d like to give it to him.”

 

“One of your...gifts, then,” says Fenris.

 

“Don’t sound so dubious,” says Hawke. “I give _excellent_ presents.”

 

Fenris carefully doesn’t reference the book given to him when he could not read, but he is sure, by the look on Hawke’s face, that they are both thinking about it regardless.

 

“It’s the thought that counts, anyway,” says Hawke somewhat sheepishly, pushing open the Hanged Man’s door.The air noticeably sours, rich with body odour and the reek of other bodily fluids better left unnamed. Fenris wrinkles his nose and trails after Hawke as he climbs the steps up to Varric’s room.

 

“Your intent is admirably thoughtful,” murmurs Fenris dryly.

 

“What can I say?” replies Hawke. “I’m a giver.”

 

Hawke’s penchant for bestowing well-intentioned but largely inappropriate gifts to his friends is becoming notorious. Aveline’s new shield had drawn Varric’s attention the week before, while they played a hand of Wicked Grace at The Hanged Man. When Hawke had gone down to order another round, she’d explained the entire awkward story.

 

“It was….a sweet thought,” she had said, glancing over her shoulder to make sure Hawke was out of earshot.

 

Varric snorted, idly scribbling on a bit of parchment. Fenris assumed it to be notes for his book, a saga that was shaping up to be a rather hyperbolic account of Hawke’s misadventures.  “‘Sweet’ is not the word I’d use to describe him, Aveline. Clueless, maybe. Oblivious.”

 

Aveline chuckled. “A bit of a disaster, yes. Do you know what he gave Anders? It--”

 

Then Hawke had appeared on the stairs with a tray of mugs and they’d stopped talking about him.

 

Now, Fenris watches from the doorway, Hawke presenting the ring to Varric with a dramatic flourish. The look on his face is expectant; Hawke never looks self-congratulatory when presenting his friends with gifts. There’s nothing smug about the genuine delight on his face. He is more contradictory, Fenris has determined, than most humans he’s met.

 

Having been fully prepared for Varric to inform Hawke that the ring actually belongs to someone else, is carved with something offensive, or is moments away from exploding in their faces, Fenris is surprised when Varric reacts with pleasure and gratitude.

 

So is Hawke, apparently. “Wait, no,” he’s saying. “If you’re going to write about this, feel free to embellish it a little bit. Maybe I could… recover it from the belly of a dragon, or cut it off some warlord’s hand.”

 

“Don’t worry,” says Varric, grinning. “I’ll make you look good. Thanks, Hawke. I appreciate this.”

 

He’s holding the ring up to the light when they take their leave of him, muttering something about mail.

 

“That went better than expected, don’t you think?” asks Hawke, holding the door open for Fenris as they duck out of the pub.

 

Fenris squints into the bright sunlight, waiting for his eyes to adjust. “He could be humouring you,” he says mildly. “Perhaps it was just a ring.”

 

“You can be very cruel, you know,” says Hawke, chuckling.

 

“I have no desire to contribute to your already substantial ego,” murmurs Fenris.

 

“That’s not the only thing about me that’s substantial,” quips Hawke immediately.

 

Fenris refuses to look directly at Hawke. He can picture the raised eyebrows and encouraging grin well enough in his head already without even having to see it. “Yes. Your appetite is also quite large.”

 

Because he’s Hawke he laughs, open and loud, and then reaches out to briefly squeeze Fenris’s shoulder. “I can’t argue with that because I am actually starving. Shall we get a bite to eat?”

 

Fenris had wine for dinner last night. His stomach gurgles unhappily, reminding him that fermented grapes are not adequate sustenance. “If you wish.”

 

“I don’t know about you, but I could really go for a pie,” says Hawke, and that’s exactly what they do. There’s a Ferelden market stall by the docks that Hawke apparently likes to frequent; the hand-painted sign depicts loaves of bread and drooling mabari hounds. Hawke exchanges good-natured greetings with the merchant and hands over some coppers in return for two steaming meat pies wrapped in waxy paper.

 

Fenris takes a bite of the pie Hawke hands him, gravy instantly oozing down his chin. The filling burns his mouth. “What’s in this?” he asks, after he’s chewed and swallowed, wiping flaky crust from the corner of his lips.

 

“Meat,” says Hawke with a shrug, blowing frantically on his pie to cool it before he takes another huge bite. “Of some variety. Gravy. Potatoes.” He pauses. “...Flour?”

 

Fenris frowns and tries some more, chewing thoughtfully.

 

Hawke laughs at him, licking gravy off his fingers. “You don’t like it?”

 

“I would be more receptive to the... _flavour_ _—_ and I use that term very loosely—if I knew what it was I’m eating,” admits Fenris. The pie is unremarkable, though wholly characteristic of what he knows of Ferelden cuisine: greasy, lumpy, and grey.

 

Hawke continues to eat with audible enthusiasm, his eyes closed in seeming pleasure. “Not knowing is half the fun,” he says, speaking through a full mouth. “It’s like a guessing game.”

 

Fenris swallows a bit of gristle and makes a face. “You are disgusting, Hawke.”

 

“If you’re done with yours, I’d be happy to take the rest off your hands,” Hawke replies cheerfully.

 

Fenris gives him the rest of his pie.

 

“Come on,” encourages Hawke. “I’ll get you one of those fancy little Orlesian pastries you like so much, instead.”

 

“You needn’t get me anything,” hedges Fenris, watching Hawke wrap up the remains of Fenris’s meat pie, apparently keeping it for later.

 

Hawke shrugs. “Why not?”

 

“ _Why_?” counters Fenris.

 

“I’m a bit confused, now, to be honest,” says Hawke. He doesn’t sound particularly concerned as he walks briskly back through Lowtown, Fenris picking up his own pace to keep up with Hawke’s long strides.

 

Hawke doesn’t outwardly display concern regarding _most_ issues, muses Fenris. He either doesn’t react at all, deflects with a sarcastic comment, poor joke, or groan-worthy pun, or responds with complete over-the-top theatricality; it’s a varied technique that serves him well in confusing _others_ , keeping practically anyone that doesn’t know him well enough to understand suitably off their guard. For a man that acts thoroughly clueless and exasperated by the very thought of prolonged human interaction, Hawke is a remarkably shrewd individual.

 

It’s a rare thing to witness, however. Hawke is careful.

 

Hawke fills the silence with complaints as they climb the tall, winding steps to Hightown, buys Fenris his pastry, then pesters Fenris until he gives in to Hawke’s wheedling and trails after him all the way to Hawke’s mansion.

 

They settle in the library, Fenris sitting on the floor. He’s learned that if he sits near the fire, the dog will come and put her head on his thigh, and Fenris can scratch her soft ears.

 

“Fenris, do you ever wonder...” Hawke sounds speculative, his voice trailing away.

 

“Hm?” Fenris looks up, angling his head to peer at Hawke sprawled lazily in his armchair.

Hawke looks at Fenris, expression very grave, then leans over the armrest and reaches out to brush his thumb against Fenris’s eyebrow. “Fenris. Do you ever wonder what your life would have been like if you had been… _ginger_?”

 

Fenris stares at him, his fingers going still. In his lap, the dog grumbles a protest as the petting stops and wets his fingers with her tongue.

 

“You mean my hair,” says Fenris flatly.

 

Hawke’s eyes crinkle up as he grins, wide and stupid. “No, the spice. Of _course_ I mean your hair.”

 

Fenris wants, helplessly, to kiss him. He’s stopped being able to gauge the rationality of his desires when measured against Hawke. “I assume this inane thought entered your head because my—because _she_ has red hair.”

 

He can’t even say the word, now. Sister.

 

“Perhaps it did,” agrees Hawke easily, shrugging. “I think your hair was dark, though. Your eyebrows don’t match the rest of you.”

 

Fenris clears his throat, cheeks burning. “Your energy would be better spent elsewhere.”

 

“Oh, I imagine it could,” murmurs Hawke. The innuendo is clear.

 

“That’s not what I meant,” snaps Fenris.

 

“I know, love,” says Hawke. He’s doing a very poor job of hiding his laughter. “What would you like to read tonight, then? Another chapter of _Hard in Hightown_?”

 

Fenris groans.

 

oOo

 

Fenris has never given Hawke a gift.

 

He doesn’t realise he’s said this aloud until the witch responds smartly: “I’d say the gift of his life is enough, don’t you think?”

 

“There is no telling—”

 

“Up ahead, boy,” snaps the witch. “That’s your cave, innit?”

 

Fenris catches his breath sharply, picking nimbly down the embankment and ducking into the mouth of the cave. The witch slides off his back when he kneels, cupping her hand and igniting a ball of flames balanced right on her palm. As Fenris watches warily, it rises to float above them, fixed at an undefined point near the ceiling that bathes them in light at the same time that it surrounds them in thick darkness.

 

“He breathes, still,” murmurs the witch.

 

Hawke is curled up exactly where Fenris left him, wrapped in two blankets, lips parted as he draws in ragged, shallow breaths.

 

“Hurry,” snaps Fenris. “Can you heal him? Will he live?” He crouches down on the stone, tucking his knees under him; with one hand spread over the beat of Hawke’s heart, he keeps his other hand occupied by Hawke’s clutching fingers. The idiot is trying to speak, his eyes shut, bloodied lips moving silently. His skin is wretchedly sallow.

 

The witch spreads her hands, conjuring light and warmth from nothing. Instinctively, Fenris shrinks away. “Steady yourself, serah. Have you so little faith in the Champion’s stubborn resolve?”

 

“I—no,” says Fenris, gritting his teeth. “I do not.” He has faith enough in Hawke’s luck, but Fenris has always dreaded the inevitable day it will surely run dry. _Even dragons are eventually slain, Hawke._

 

“Then hush, lad,” she chides. “You will keep this one’s heart beating strong, yes?”

 

Fenris nods helplessly.

 

_“You keep Hawke out of trouble, elf.” Varric looks tired and strained, rubbing at his face. He glances back over his shoulder at Isabela’s ship in the harbour. “I’m counting on you, now. I don’t trust him to keep his insides where they belong without help.”_

 

_“I am certain that even if I succeed in keeping Hawke out of trouble, trouble will find him, regardless,” murmurs Fenris. “As long as I draw breath, I will ensure it does not kill kim.”_

 

_Varric nods. “I don’t want a letter informing me you were both eaten by a wyvern or something. Stay safe.”_

 

Fenris imagines himself painstakingly writing out letters, to Bethany, to Varric. To Aveline. Explaining, poorly, and without Hawke’s help, that he could not keep Hawke safe.

 

“You _are_ dour, aren’t you,” hisses the witch. “Keep it down over there!”

 

“I said nothing,” he snaps, irritated. He tightens his grip on Hawke’s hand and Hawke returns the pressure weakly, his fingertips sticky and cold.

 

“You’re thinking it,” she retorts. She lifts her gaze, eyes narrowed. Her pale golden magic filters between the three of them, thick and tangible in the close press of the cave. It smells like the dirt of the forest floor, fresh weeds, and honey, and Fenris closes his eyes, focusing on the steadying beat of Hawke’s heart, the strengthening pull of breath in his lungs.

 

She’s drawing the magic through him, through the walls of the cave, through the forest and sky beyond. He can feel it, the itch of the lyrium burned into his skin, as she pulls magic  into her hands, focusing it through her staff and pushing it into Hawke, weaving fine, glimmering lines of it through all the broken and bleeding parts of Hawke’s body. It’s not like any healing magic he’s ever felt before; it surrounds them like the very air they breathe.

 

When Fenris finally opens his eyes again, he realises his markings are lit, suffusing the cave with an icy glow.

 

The witch laughs, brushing her hands off on her skirts as she stands and steadies herself with her staff. “Curious thing, that lyrium skin. Well, your boy lives. Wake him whenever you wish. I’ll take that gold, now, serah.”

 

For a moment, Fenris ignores her entirely, running his fingers fretfully over Hawke’s whole flesh. There is a scar between his ribs, thin and silver, the dried blood flaking away under the careful rub of his fingertips. Fenris leans in and presses an ear to Hawke’s chest, breathing out in time with the sure beat of his heart.

 

Without looking up, he pulls five sovereigns from his belt and gives them to the witch. Hawke is pale, eyes bruised, but the wound is gone.

 

“This is generous. Many thanks,” says the witch, sounding surprised. She hesitates by the mouth of the cave, and Fenris looks up, questioning. The witch inclines her head. “Do not forget the sword, serah.” With a final, mocking bow, she disappears.

 

“Hawke,” says Fenris, giving his shoulder a gentle shake. “Garrett. Please.”

 

“Ugh,” mutters Hawke, his eyelids flickering. His face screws up and he opens his eyes, blinking at the ceiling. Then he turns his face away to unceremoniously spit blood onto the stone, rising up onto his elbow to cough away from Fenris. “Maker’s breath, this is worse than Ostagar.” Seemingly exhausted, he flops onto his back, panting. “...Did you just call me by my first name?”

 

“You have an active imagination,” says Fenris. His voice is a rough, tenuous thing, ragged around the edges. Frustrated, he wraps his hand in Hawke’s cloak and bows his head, breathing steadily until his grief subsides.

 

“It’s one of my better traits, yes,” agrees Hawke. He tries to get up and collapses instantly with a wheeze. “It feels like someone has been standing on my chest. A Halla, perhaps. Something with pointy hooves.”

 

“Were there Halla, at Ostagar?” says Fenris. It comes out snippier than he intends.

 

“No,” sighs Hawke. “No Halla. Just Darkspawn. Thousands of them.” He closes his eyes, reaching up to press his hand cautiously to where the knife slipped so easily between his ribs. “I tend to try to forget about it, to be honest.”

 

“I find it difficult to believe you were part of an army.” People follow orders, in the army.

 

“Excuse you, I was not,” groans Hawke. “You’re right to be put off by the thought. I was there for Carver, not that the ungrateful little sod appreciated it.” Fenris doesn’t understand how his tone is fond, but Fenris never met Bethany’s taciturn twin.

 

Fenris makes a considering noise. His hands, he realises, are shaking. He feels entirely removed from this conversation, sure that Hawke must not actually be here, speaking with him, alive and in one piece.

 

“Fenris, love,” sighs Hawke. “Help me get up?”

 

“Hawke. Just. Be still,” says Fenris wearily. “Listen to me, for once in your life, you stubborn fool.”

 

Hawke, miraculously, says nothing. Fenris comforts himself by pressing his palm to Hawke’s chest, feeling him draw regular breaths. Slowly, Fenris’s own heart rate settles.

 

“If you hadn’t just nearly died, I would kill you myself,” Fenris says.

 

“You are a conundrum,” comments Hawke. “Am I allowed to get up now? I feel much better, honest.”

 

In response, Fenris leans in to kiss him, tangling his fingers in the hood of Hawke’s cloak; Hawke tastes like iron but his mouth is hot and slick and he responds easily, reaching out to carefully curl his gauntlet in Fenris’s hair.

 

“You may stand, now,” Fenris says quietly, when they finally part.

 

Hawke is shaky on his feet, leaning heavily on Fenris, but he moves under his own power and his breaths come out deep and even as they leave the cave.

 

“Where are we?” he asks, blinking uncertainly into the night. “I don’t quite recall….”

 

“Not far from the site of the ambush,” murmurs Fenris. “I found the witch in the village. She has my sword.”

 

“What witch?” asks Hawke, startled. “You found a witch?”

 

“I did not find the prospect of letting you bleed to death particularly appealing,” says Fenris. “I found a healer, Hawke. I am not a fool.”

 

For a moment, Hawke is uneasily quiet. He pulls away from Fenris, resting his weight against a tree; lit only by the moonlight, his eyes are dark, face drawn. “I do not think you foolish, love,” he says. He clears his throat, shaking his hair out of his eyes. “...Fenris.”

 

Fenris resists the urge to close the distance between them. Instead, he crosses his arms. “Hawke?”

 

Hawke lets out a little laugh but his smile fades quickly. “We should...find some shelter. That village, perhaps. What’s this about your sword?”

 

“I gave it to the witch as a temporary trade for her service. It was not worth your life,” says Fenris. “It seemed a paltry sacrifice, should I not recover it.”

 

Hawke nods, holding out his hand. “Let’s go get it, then.”

 

oOo

 

They make it to the village by morning.

 

The witch is waiting for them, sword in hand. She refills their potions and repacks their injury kit and arranges a room for them at the inn to get cleaned up.

 

It’s not until they’re finally alone that Hawke wraps Fenris in a hug, burying his nose between Fenris’s shoulder and throat like a large snuffling dog. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I would never leave you by choice.”

 

“Shut up, Hawke,” mutters Fenris. “I don’t want to hear this.”

 

“I don’t wish to say it, honestly,” retorts Hawke. He sighs, still wrapped tight around Fenris, keeping him close. “You know.... I think I’d quite like to go back to Lothering. I know it’s silly.”

 

“If you wish it,” says Fenris firmly. “We will go.”

 

oOo

 

When the breach tears open the very heavens, Hawke and Fenris are on the outskirts of what used to be Lothering, picking their way through blighted rubble.

 

“Maker’s breath,” murmurs Hawke, breaking the tense silence. “Would you look at that. The sky is falling.”

 

Fenris reaches out and takes Hawke’s hand.

 

Neither of them says anything else for quite some time.

 

 

end

**Author's Note:**

> In this story, Anders was killed by Hawke after he blew up the chantry.


End file.
